


We Made These Memories for Ourselves

by supernope



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Baker Harry, Fluff, Football Player Louis, M/M, Mpreg, Mpreg Harry, Pregnant Harry, a hint of spanking, and a whole lot of fluff idk, awkward handjobs, but not like babies coming out of butts i promise there are only c-sections to be found here, excessive use of the word belly, fluff is all i write y'all shouldn't expect anything else at this point tbh, i know a lot of ppl won't read mpreg bc they're worried about that, just in case you were worried, who is obsessed with his belly bc he's harry styles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernope/pseuds/supernope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breath held, Harry squints his eyes open and focuses on the first stick. A blue line. Harry breathes out an unsteady breath. He’s pretty sure he read that one blue line is a negative, but he fishes the box from the bottom of the pile just to make sure.</p><p>“Negative,” he confirms, voice echoing around the small room. “Next.”</p><p>Now that he’s feeling a little less shaky, he scans the rest of the tests at once, is met with a headache-inducing mixture of pink plus signs and blue double lines. His heart rate picks up until it’s pounding triple-time in the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach, thundering in his ears and throbbing in his temples. He flips over the rest of the boxes slowly, but he knows what they’re going to say before he even looks.</p><p>[or, Louis is a footballer, Harry owns a bakery, and they're having a baby.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Made These Memories for Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radadusta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radadusta/gifts).
  * Translation into Polski available: [Stworzyliśmy te wspomnienia dla siebie samych](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605300) by [Martynax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Martynax/pseuds/Martynax)



> HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, [ROS](http://radadusta.tumblr.com/)!!! I you enjoy this labor of love (HAHA), and that you have a wonderful day full of cake and presents and lots and lots of Harry mpreg! ♥♥♥
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who helped me with this fic, from reading over it to helping with the plot to holding my hand. That's about 800 people because I'm needy as fuck, so I won't name everyone, but you are all amazing and way too nice to me. :*

“That will be £8.50, please,” Harry chirps with a grin. He busies himself boxing up the last of the black forest cupcakes while his last customer of the day fishes change out of her purse. It’s been a frantically busy day, but there are only twenty minutes left to his shift and he’s been thinking about stopping by the new Thai place on his way home to pick up dinner. He’d cook, but he’s been on his feet all day and Louis has been working so hard these past few weeks that he can’t ask him to go out for dinner, would rather bring it home so they can eat it from the comfort of their own over-stuffed sofa.

He rings the woman up, then follows her to the front of the shop so he can lock the door behind her, turns to face the small room with a happy sigh. The kitchen has already been cleaned, he just needs to tidy the front room a bit and box up the leftovers to drop off at the homeless shelter downtown, and then he’s home free. He flips on the small television over the counter that’s meant to distract customers when the line is too long, turns it on to Sky Sports, and starts sweeping. He’s been checking sports news on his phone obsessively for weeks now, waiting for news, hints, _anything_ , but so far the press has been mum, and Louis hasn’t said much, afraid he might jinx things.

He’s humming along to something Louis had been playing while in the shower this morning, is only listening with half an ear, when he hears, “Tomlinson signed to United this evening, effective next week.”

His head whips around so fast he hears a few joints crack, but he doesn’t even feel it, just drops the broom on its side and shuffles closer to the television in a trance, sure he’d misheard. But no, there is Louis, _his_ Louis, sitting behind a table with his manager and the coach of Manchester United. The subtitles at the bottom of the screen say something about how honored he is, how he hopes he can bring something to the team, but all Harry sees is Louis, all he hears is ‘Tomlinson signed to United’, all he needs to do right now is get home and celebrate with his boy.

Harry goes into hyperdrive, shoving cupcakes and croissants into boxes pell-mell, sweeping the floor, stacking chairs, and wiping down the counters until everything is sparkling and smells of lemons. After that, it’s a mad rush to get to his car with all of the bakery boxes intact and to get downtown before evening traffic starts. He feels a bit bad about how curt he is with the shelter staff and about the box of German chocolate cake bites he kept, but he doesn’t have time to chat tonight, he needs to get home and chill a bottle of champagne, maybe make a banner or two, before Louis gets a chance to beat him home.

The house is blissfully empty when Harry arrives, just the dogs begging for his attention and a cat winding between his legs. Harry crouches down briefly to kiss them all hello and promise them attention later, because he has work to do just now.

 

By the time the door opens at half six, everything is all set. There are candles lit at the table, a bottle of champagne is chilling in an ice bucket, and Harry has managed to squeeze into the Manchester United kit Louis bought on their third date, when he’d taken Harry to a match at Old Trafford and confessed he dreamed of playing there one day. Harry is so proud of Louis he feels like he could burst from it, and when Louis calls out for him, his response is shaky with excitement, thick with pride and love.

“Hey, Hazza, I picked up dinner on my way home. I got you the aloo gobi, like last time, but if you want some -”

He cuts off with a strangled choking noise, and Harry bites his lip around a smile, fingers tangling in the hem of the jersey while Louis looks him up and down. His expression turns predatory when they land on his bare legs, and Louis drops his kit bag on the floor, sets the take away bag down on the table without looking away from Harry, and advances on him with a hungry glint in his eyes.

“Wait,” Harry giggles, dancing back a step and holding a hand out. “Let me congratulate you first, have patience!”

He waits until Louis is an arm’s reach away, then loops him in, ducks down to rub their noses together and breathes, “Congratulations, big shot. I knew you could do it, I’m so proud of you.”

Louis bites his lip, eyes scrunched up so they’re barely more than happy little slits, then lets out a jubilant laugh when Harry scoops him up and twirls him around. They’re both dizzy and laughing hysterically by the time Harry sets Louis back down, and he stumbles over Louis’ abandoned kit bag when he tries to step back. Louis’ hands flash out to try and catch him, but Harry is too far gone and they both go tumbling to the floor in a heap of limbs.

“Oops,” Harry giggles, blinking up at Louis where he’s lying on top of him, hair mussed and candlelight reflecting in his eyes.

“Hi,” Louis whispers. He pushes Harry’s fringe out of his eyes, murmurs, “And we’re not even drunk yet.”

Harry beams up at Louis, loops a leg around his hips and says, “Well, then let’s get started.”

Louis shakes his head, pushes up onto an elbow so he can tug at the fabric of the Man U jersey. “I don’t think so, Styles.” He ignores Harry’s pouty protest of ‘ _hey, it’s Tomlinson_ ’, just ducks back in and stops a hair’s breadth from Harry’s mouth so that his belly tightens with anticipation, whispers, “Dessert first.”

It’s not a question. Harry nods in agreement anyway, lust fizzing on his tongue. Just like that, the air between them has gone syrupy, thick with tension that throbs, heavy, in Harry’s veins.

“I can’t believe you did this,” Louis murmurs, voice a low hum that shivers down Harry’s spine. He brushes a palm over Harry’s belly, fingers scratching at the jersey material of his shirt, and Harry can’t breathe with how much he needs Louis’ hands on him, all over him, right this second.

“Should I be concerned that this is what gets you hard?” It comes out too breathless by far, but he’s never tried to hide how much Louis affects him. He’s pretty sure Louis can feel his boner against his hip, anyway.

Sure enough, Louis rolls his hips against Harry’s, bites at his collarbone through the shirt. “I _am_ English,” he rasps, snapping the waistband of Harry’s pants - his tiniest pair, just for Louis - against his hip. “Keep the kit on.”

Another demand that Harry is more than happy to grant. Harry barely has time to nod before Louis’ mouth is on his. It’s a rush from the get-go, hard and desperate, fingers dragging at his hair and hips rolling against his until he’s fully hard and his toes are curling at the barely-there friction from too many layers of clothing between them. Harry slides his hands into the back of Louis’ shorts to pull him closer, tries to slide them down over his hips, but before he can, Louis scrambles back and pants out, “Upstairs.”

Harry whines, already too far gone to care about where they are or the fact that the dogs are watching them through the back garden window, and he tries to tug Louis back in. Louis just laughs, raspy and tinged with hysteria, and says, “Floor too hard. Your back. _Haz._ ”

Chest heaving, nearly blind with lust, Harry breathes, “Race you,” then scrambles up off the floor and dashes out of the room, Louis hot on his heels and a breathless laugh tripping off his tongue. He gets as far as the foot of the stairs before Louis catches up, is stopped by arms wrapping around his waist and swinging him off the ground with a triumphant whoop.

“Louis!” Harry shrieks, legs flailing, and they go toppling to the ground in a muddled heap, breathless with laughter and straining against each other. The stairs are uncomfortable, digging into Harry’s back at odd angles, but Louis is already nibbling his way down his neck and rutting against him, and all thoughts of discomfort are forgotten in a haze of pleasure.

Louis’ breath seeps through the thin material of the jersey as he slides down Harry’s body, pressing damp kisses along his torso and scraping his teeth over his nipples through the fabric. Harry spreads his legs automatically so that Louis can settle between them, moans loudly when, without a warning, Louis shuffles down a step and ducks down so he can mouth at him through his pants. Harry throws an arm across his eyes and tries not to move against the sharp edges of the stairs, works his hips in tiny increments as Louis sucks at him through the cotton, but then Louis tugs the waistband of his pants down and closes his mouth around the head of his dick and he arches his back, head thudding against the wood and fingers threading through Louis’ hair. He spreads his legs around Louis’ shoulders, moans brokenly when Louis sinks down slowly, cheeks hollowing around him.

Harry can feel pleasure winding itself slowly up his spine, like the spidery tendrils of a vine, is just about to push Louis off so he doesn’t come before he gets Louis inside him, when Louis brushes the tip of a spit-slick fingers over his hole. Harry shudders and lets out a string of curses, pushing back against Louis’ hand, and groans, “Don’t tease.”

Instead of listening, though, Louis pulls off him with a hum and a shake of his head. His voice is scratchy, lips red and swollen, when he says, tongue clumsy around the word, “Lube.”

“Where’s your wallet -”

“Too far,” Louis shakes his head, then pushes unsteadily to his feet and hauls Harry up with him. They stumble up the stairs, working on Louis’ clothes with trembling, touch-starved hands as they go, so that by the time they make their way down the hall toward their room, there’s a trail of clothes marking their path and Louis is naked. The Manchester United jersey is clinging to Harry’s damp, flushed skin, but Louis keeps tugging at it, pushing the hem up over Harry’s belly, then pulling it back down so he can mouth at Harry’s collarbones. Just outside their bedroom door, Louis pushes Harry back against the wall so he can do just that, nips at the curve of Harry’s shoulder as he grips his bum and grinds up against him.

Harry lets his head fall back against the wall, gasps out into the still air of the hallway, “Louis, please.”

Louis pulls off of him with a nod, rubbing a thumb over the bruise he’s just sucked into his collarbone, and pulls Harry back into a biting kiss. Clumsy and lust-hazy, Harry lets Louis guide him back into the bedroom with hands on his sides, goes willingly when Louis turns him to face the bed. He drapes himself over it eagerly, legs spaced apart so that Louis can stand between them, and waits.

“Fuck,” Louis mutters, sliding a hand across the small of Harry’s back where the jersey has ridden up. “Look at you.”

Harry just wiggles his hips impatiently, cranes his neck so that he can watch Louis turn to the bedside table and pull lube and a condom out of the drawer. He spreads his legs a little wider, cushions his head on his arms, and listens for the click of the bottle cap, impatience and want curling in his belly and making his fingers itch. He’s so hard he _aches_ , and he moans happily when Louis brushes a hand over his bum, pulls it back and gives him a sharp little smack that has him choking out a gasp and grinding down against the bed. Harry waits for another, breath held in anticipation, but he doesn’t have any time to be disappointed when he feels slick fingers press against him, then pause.

“Good?” Louis asks, and Harry nods quickly, pushes back against him until he slides the tip of a finger past his rim. Harry’s head drops forward on a moan as a shiver rolls up his spine at the delicious stretch and burn. Louis waits for him to adjust, but Harry is desperate, works his hips back against Louis’ hand until he starts to move. Louis opens him up slowly, drags it out until Harry is a mess, flushed and sweaty, gasping into the duvet every time Louis crooks his fingers just so. By the time he’s up to three fingers, the lingering buzz of the spanking has worn off, but the way Louis keeps working the pads of his fingers against his prostate has him rolling his hips down against the bed and back against Louis’ hand, chanting, “Now now now.”

He can _feel_ Louis’ desperation in the way his hands are trembling, reaches behind himself and blindly wraps a hand around Louis’ dick to try and guide it toward him. Louis’ bitten off curses slide over Harry’s skin like velvet, and the next moment, Louis’ fingers are gone and he’s knocking Harry’s hand away, is pushing into him in one smooth motion, hands clamped around Harry’s hips like vices as he bottoms out.

“Oh, god,” Harry moans, turning his face into the blankets. The Man U jersey is stifling and Harry’s cock aches where it’s trapped between his belly and the mattress, but Louis is pulling out, a slow, delicious drag, and all Harry can do is fist his hands in the bedsheets and hold on while Louis fucks into him, hard and fast.

A hand slides up his back and works its way into his hair, tugging sharply at his scalp so that electricity rockets down Harry’s spine and pools in his belly. He could come from just this, he thinks, arching back into Louis’ grip so that Louis can lean over him and close his mouth around the curve of his neck.

Everything has gone blurry, world reduced to only the places where their bodies are touching and rolling waves of heat and pleasure, but it all falls away when Louis lets go and pulls back, and Harry makes a noise of protest, blinks his eyes open in confusion when Louis fits a hand around his shoulder and tugs.

“Want to see you,” he mumbles, voice rumbling out into the thick, heavy air.

Harry is on edge, skin tingling and pulsing with desperation, but he rolls over and scoots back on the bed, lets Louis lay him out against the pillows and press his legs back against his chest so he can line up and push back in. There’s nothing for him to grip onto up here, blankets turned down and pillows too mobile, so Harry tangles his fingers in his own hair, drapes his legs over Louis’ shoulders and holds on. The change of angle is perfect, and he’s so wound up, already so far gone, that all it takes is Louis’ hand wrapping around him and tugging once before he’s arching back and coming with a ragged moan. It takes Harry a minute to come down, to regain his bearings and his eyesight, then he tightens his still-trembling legs around Louis’ shoulders so he can meet him thrust for shaky thrust, little bolts of after-shock sparking in the pit of his stomach.

“Louis,” Harry whispers, pushing Louis’ sweaty fringe off his forehead, and he leans into it eagerly when Louis ducks down to kiss him, wraps himself around Louis completely while he shakes apart.

They lay wrapped up in a tangled heap for a while, until their heart rates have slowed and the sweat has cooled on their bodies. Exhaustion drags at Harry’s limbs when Louis eases back, and he winces as Louis pulls out, shifts uncomfortably on the bed. He still has the Man U kit on, feels like it’s permanently stuck to his skin, so when Louis helps him off the bed and leads him into the bathroom for a quick shower, he doesn’t protest, just tucks his face into Louis’ neck and follows along on wobbly legs.

 

Dinner that night is cold Indian food, eaten naked on the floor of the living room at midnight while re-runs of MasterChef play quietly in the background. They sleep in the spare bedroom, too heavy-limbed and fucked-out to bother changing the sheets on their own bed. Harry wakes up with a sore back from laying on the stairs and Louis spooned up behind him, letting off an incredible amount of body heat and snoring quietly into his shoulder. He lies there quietly for a few minutes, thinking about the million things he needs to do now that they’re moving to Manchester, including giving notice at the bakery and finding somewhere for them to live once they move. Instead of actually getting up to do any of it, though, he turns over in the bracket of Louis’ arms, slots their knees together, and goes back to sleep.

&&

“Today’s the day,” a soft voice sings in Harry’s ear, and he comes awake to the feel of a hand rubbing between his shoulderblades and a warm mouth pressing kisses behind his ear. Harry burrows further into the pillow, still too sleepy-hazy to know why he doesn’t want to get up just yet, but absolutely certain that more sleep is in order. The voice doesn’t relent, though, just keeps whispering quiet words of encouragement and praise and dotting kisses along his jaw, over his shoulder, down the center of his back, until he’s shaken the sleep from his limbs and is able to open his eyes.

“Morning, sunshine,” Louis murmurs, smiling down at him from where he’s propped up on an elbow. The room is still dark, filled with the soft glow of the lingering moon, and Louis looks soft and cozy, eyes still puffy and hair fluffed up from sleep.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, mouth sleep-tacky, as he rolls over. Louis settles on top of him immediately, chin stacked on his fists like a child. A child with three days’ growth of beard dusting his jaw, tattoos inked across his chest and down both arms, and a thick platinum band on his left ring finger, but a child nonetheless. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”

Louis shakes his head. “It’s Saturday, love. Today’s _your_ day.”

“Oh, god,” Harry groans. “I forgot.”

Louis laughs and shifts on top of Harry, hip digging into his lower belly, and Harry goes stock-still, feels his face blanche as a wave of nausea rolls over him.

“Off,” he gasps, tapping rapidly at Louis’ shoulder until he rolls off him, wide-eyed with confusion. One hand over his mouth and the other clutching his stomach, Harry dashes for the bathroom, makes it just in time to drop to his knees in front of the toilet before he’s heaving. Harry whimpers miserably between retches, swiping at his eyes with trembling hands, and lets out a blissful little groan when Louis’ cool fingers brush his sweaty fringe off his face and cup the back of his neck.

Louis crouches down next to him, brow furrowed in concern. “Babe.”

Harry shrugs weakly and wipes at the tears tracking down his cheeks again. “I’m okay,” he croaks. “Just nervous about the opening.”

“Hey,” Louis murmurs, stroking his fingers through Harry’s hair and reaching for a flannel so he can wipe his eyes. “The soft opening went incredibly, remember? You and Zayn work so well together, you’re going to smash it. And I’ll be hovering around you all day to make sure you don’t worry your pretty head off. Now come on, up we go, let’s get you into the shower.”

Harry lets Louis pull him to his feet, grateful for the support and the way Louis is taking care of him, always takes care of him.

“Love you so much,” Harry mumbles into Louis’ shoulder while he turns the shower on, hot enough that it fills the room with steam.

Louis rubs a hand up Harry’s side and there’s a smile in his voice when he says, “I love you, too. Here, love, lean against the wall, I’ll get your toothbrush.”

Harry nods slowly, not wanting to make any jarring movements just in case, and leans obediently against the wall beside the shower, slides his pants off with clumsy fingers and waits for Louis to return. He’s not quite sure he trusts his legs to hold him up on a slippery shower floor just yet.

 

By the time Harry makes it downstairs, he’s feeling perfectly fine. He lets Louis force a mug of tea and a slice of dry toast down his throat because it makes _him_ feel better, then they bundle up for the short walk to the bakery. The world outside their pretty little house is sleepy, the sky still sooty blue, stars still winking overhead. There’s a lot to do to get ready for the first day, though, so they set off while the world slumbers around them, feet crunching over brittle brown leaves that litter the sidewalk, the last remnants of autumn.

Harry reaches out for where he knows Louis’ hand will be, smiles out into the still, frigid air when Louis twines their fingers together and squeezes. It’s early September and already too cold, but all Harry feels as they stride down streets lined with bare, brittle-looking trees, breaths misting in the air before them, is excitement, like he could take on the world, as long as he has Louis by his side.

&&

Harry collapses into one of the bistro chairs out front with a groan, hands hanging limp at his sides and head tipped back against the top of the chair. “Zayn,” he croaks, voice rumbling about in his chest. “I think we need more employees.”

“We don’t have any employees,” Zayn counters, poking Harry in the cheek.

Harry whimpers pitifully when Louis drops into the chair beside him and tugs his feet into his lap, moans gratefully when he works his boots off and digs the flat of his thumb into Harry’s arch.

“When’s my turn,” Zayn demands, and Harry lifts his head just in time to see Louis flip Zayn off.

“Get your own husband,” Harry gripes, unable to keep an ear-splitting grin off his face at the smug look on Louis’.

“Do you need to count the till?” Louis asks, still working his fingers into the balls of Harry’s feet. It hurts, but it also feels like heaven, relief from having been on his feet all day in a new pair of boots.

Harry tips his head back again so he can look at the counter upside-down. “We should,” he mumbles, but there’s exhaustion dragging at his bones and Louis still has a bit of frosting in his hair from when he’d tried to convince Harry to let him ice the petit fours (they’d had to throw that batch away), and Harry would very much like to take his lovely husband home and get his mouth around his cock. That’s probably too much information for Zayn, though, so he settles on, “But I don’t want to.”

Zayn snorts. “Fine. You go, I’ll count the till and lock up. But you’re counting tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Harry says immediately, tugging his feet out of Louis’ lap so he can shove his boots back on. He turns to look at Zayn while he zips them up, takes a moment to study the tired haze to Zayn’s eyes and haphazard tilt to his beanie. “Tomorrow we discuss hiring employees.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but a yawn cuts off his retort, and by the time he’s done, shoulders slumped and eyelids droopy, he just mumbles, “Fine, fine. Now go home, so I can lock up in peace.”

Harry pushes up out of the chair with a weary sigh, drops a kiss to the top of Zayn’s head as he skirts the table and heads toward the front of the shop. There are two small bags of leftover pastries for each of them to take home, and Harry grabs the one he knows has the raspberry twists in it because he’s been eyeing them all day and he can’t hold off any longer.

The walk home feels endless, the wind bitterly cold and the smell of the pastries taunting Harry with every step. Louis chatters aimlessly as they walk, though, mentions interesting customers who came in today, which pastry was his favorite, which he thinks might be most popular. Harry is grateful for the distraction from how exhausted he is, but the moment they step into the house, he makes a beeline for the sofa, stretches out across it lengthwise and balances the pastry bag on his chest so he can nibble on a raspberry twist.

He manages to devour two and a half twists before he can’t bring himself to lift the rest of the pastry to his mouth anymore, is only vaguely aware of Louis gently prying it out of his hand and lifting him into his arms. Harry’s last waking thought is that it’s a good thing their house doesn’t have stairs this time and that he owes Louis a blowjob, and then everything fades out.

&&

Harry wakes up at four in the morning ravenously hungry. He slips out of bed as quietly as possible so he doesn’t wake Louis and pads into the kitchen to rummage through the refrigerator. There’s half of a leftover pizza from Louis’ dinner and a container of chicken parmesan, but all Harry wants is a fruit salad. He manages to scrounge up a bunch of bananas, an apple, a handful of oranges, and a few containers of blueberries and strawberries. Humming quietly to himself, he slices the fruit into an enormous serving bowl, then drizzles balsamic vinegar over it and settles down at the table with a fork.

The dogs sit patiently at his feet while he sneaks them bits of banana and squishy blueberries, and Harry is so absorbed in his fruit that he doesn’t even notice Louis leaning against the doorjamb, watching him with a soft, sleepy expression on his face, until he hears his phone alarm go off in the bedroom and looks up to find the time.

“Lou,” Harry smiles, happiness blooming in his chest, despite the fact that it’s been all of an hour since he last saw him. “How long have you been standing there?”

Louis shrugs and shuffles into the room, flannel trousers long enough to cover his feet completely and make his footsteps silent. They’re probably Harry’s pajamas, or were at some point in time. “Dunno. Woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep without you there.” He jerks his chin toward the empty bowl cradled in Harry’s arms. “Late dinner?”

“Early breakfast,” Harry shrugs, dragging his fork through the remnants of balsamic sitting in the bottom of the bowl. He tips his head back for a kiss as Louis approaches, hums into it when Louis works a hand into his hair and scratches at his scalp.

He’s just leaning back to pull Louis into his lap when everything turns sour and he gasps, squeezes past Louis and stumbles to his feet so he can sprint over to the sink before he’s sick all over the floor.

Harry curls around the edge of the counter miserably, throat raw and belly aching, while the water runs so the smell doesn’t make him sick all over again. Louis rubs his back and murmurs reassurances to him, starts to say, “Why don’t I call Zayn and tell him -”

“No,” Harry gasps, clutching at his stomach. “I’m fine, I just ate too much, too fast. I’m fine, I promise.”

Louis looks far from convinced, but Harry straightens up, working to keep the wince off his face, and moves slowly toward their bedroom so he can brush his teeth and wash his face. It doesn’t take long for the nausea to pass, but Louis insists on going to work with him anyway so he can watch him like a hawk and make sure he isn’t over-exerting himself. Harry gets to watch Louis nibble on muffins and chat animatedly with customers all day, so he doesn’t complain.

&&

Within two months of opening, Harry and Zayn have hired two assistant bakers to come in and help prepare for the day, and a till manager to help work the counter and close a couple of times a week. Zayn’s frosting-work and Harry’s skill at mixing flavors earn them a write-up in the paper and bring in business from all over the city. Business is blooming for Harry, and Louis is slotting into his new team like he was meant to be there all along. Their house is perfect, warm and welcoming, with spare bedrooms for family to come visit and a spacious back garden for the dogs.

The only thing that’s not quite right is Harry. He can’t shake whatever has him running for the nearest bathroom or sink in the morning and occasional evening, and he hits a lag right around midday so intense that he has to go sit in the bakery office and close his eyes for a few minutes before he can stand up again. He doesn’t tell Louis, Louis’ got enough on his plate with his new team, but Zayn keeps badgering him to go to the doctor, makes disapproving faces every time Harry pushes back into the kitchen, ashen-faced and trembly, with a handful of berries to nibble on.

It’s not until one afternoon a few weeks before Christmas that, slumped over the desk in the office, Harry finally decides to google his symptoms. He knows it’s a bad idea, that the internet will always give you the worst case scenario, but he hasn’t had time to go see a doctor since the bakery opened, and at least this way he’ll have an idea so he can go pick up some medication.

He’s scrolling lethargically through google’s results when sees it and promptly chokes on a blackcurrant. Wheezing and chugging water, Harry clicks, rapid-fire, through the links, getting paler and paler as he goes. He knows it’s not possible, they’ve been too careful for this - Harry freezes as a memory comes back to him, a lone condom found under their bed when they’d been packing up their flat in Doncaster. He’d thought it had just fallen out of the drawer at some point, but maybe... Fuck.

Harry shoves back from the desk and strides out into the kitchen, where Zayn is meticulously piping out pale pink buttercream roses and Sandy is prepping a fresh batch of shortbread cookies. He waits impatiently, jittery and nervous, while Zayn finishes a flower then looks up. His brows knit in concern the moment he sees Harry’s face and he straightens up immediately, setting the frosting bag aside and taking a step toward Harry.

“Alright, H?”

Harry shakes his head, short and jerky, then pauses, changes it to a nod. “Yes. I think. Maybe? I need to go pick something up, I’ll be back in ten, are you okay here alone?”

Zayn looks over his shoulder at Sandy, then toward the door where he can hear Josh greeting customers, and rolls his eyes at Harry. “Of course. Take your time, maybe go home and take a nap, yeah? You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” Harry scowls, shoving his fringe off his forehead and trying to scrub some color back into his cheeks. “I’ll only be ten minutes,” he promises again, then squeezes Zayn’s hip and scoots past him and out the side door.

The walk to the Boots on the corner is brisk, sidewalks jammed with people doing some of their Christmas shopping and workers on their lunch break seeking out a quick meal. It only takes Harry a minute to find the aisle he needs, and he’s back at the bakery within a quarter of an hour, Boots bag tucked carefully into his jacket.

By the time Harry manages to lock himself inside the little bathroom in the back, he’s having trouble breathing. He upends the bag and lines the little boxes up with trembling hands, not sure where to start. He picks the most innocuous looking box first and pries it open.

It takes him almost five minutes to work up the courage to actually pee on the stick, and about thirty seconds to get impatient and rip open the four other boxes he bought and pee on those, as well. Once he’s finished, he’s got seven sticks lined up along the edge of the sink and he’s chewing on his thumb nail nervously, a habit he picked up from Louis without realizing.

The clock ticks down rapidly, so quickly Harry can’t seem to catch his breath, and as the results near, he has to close his eyes, drop his head between his knees and _breathe_. His phone beeps and Harry stops breathing altogether. This is it, he thinks. Whether he’s ready to know or not, he needs to get back to work and he needs to _know_.

Breath held, Harry squints his eyes open and focuses on the first stick. A blue line. Harry breathes out an unsteady breath. He’s pretty sure he read that one blue line is a negative, but he fishes the box from the bottom of the pile just to make sure.

“Negative,” he confirms, voice echoing around the small room. “Next.”

Now that he’s feeling a little less shaky, he scans the rest of the tests at once, is met with a headache-inducing mixture of pink plus signs and blue double lines. His heart rate picks up until it’s pounding triple-time in the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach, thundering in his ears and throbbing in his temples. He flips over the rest of the boxes slowly, but he knows what they’re going to say before he even looks.

Harry presses a trembling hand to his stomach, mind whirring too quickly to spit out any fully-formed thoughts. Shit. He needs to tell Louis. No, he needs to make a doctor’s appointment, just to be sure. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of his throat and spills out into the stuffy bathroom. He’s pretty sure six positive pregnancy tests and two months of morning sickness are all the confirmation he needs, but at least a doctor will be able to give him some more details.

“Oh, god,” Harry whispers. How is he going to tell Louis? They’ve been waiting, they’re both still so young and so busy and Louis was always so worried they would have to move at a moment’s notice. It hits Harry, then, that they _have_ moved, that he might have his own bakery now, but he has a partner and three employees and enough of a steady income to hire another, if he needs to, and.

And there’s nothing really standing in their way now.

Harry is suddenly completely overwhelmed. There’s a baby growing inside him, a baby he and Louis _made_ , a baby he’s been waiting for for seven years. Waiting for since the moment he first laid eyes on Louis, at a concert right here in Manchester. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a knock sounds on the door and Zayn’s voice says, “Haz?”

Harry swipes furiously at his cheeks, but the tears won’t stop coming.

“Yes,” he calls out, voice croaky and thick.

“Is everything alright? Let me in, you’ve been in here for half an hour.”

Not bothering to do anything to hide all of the tests, Harry clambers off the toilet lid and unlocks the door with shaking hands, steps back so Zayn can push it open and squeeze inside. Zayn scans the room before looking up at Harry with wide eyes. At the sight of Harry crying, he immediately tugs Harry into his arms, wraps him up in a hug and rubs his back in broad strokes.

“Hey,” he murmurs into Harry’s shoulder, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry hiccups, clutching Zayn like a lifeline. “This is happy crying.”

The noise Zayn makes is skeptical, but he pulls back so he can cup Harry’s face in his hands and study him, make sure he’s telling the truth. He must see something reassuring in Harry’s eyes, because his shoulders unknit and a smile crinkles his nose and he murmurs, sweet and lovely, “Congratulations, Harry. I’m really happy for you.”

He presses a soft kiss to Harry’s cheek and pulls him back into a hug, and Harry lets out a hiccuping sob into his shoulder, overwhelmed with joy but crying too hard to laugh properly.

“When are you telling Louis?”

Harry pulls out of Zayn’s embrace and turns to grab a wad of tissues to wipe at his face. He’s left a teary wet splotch on Zayn’s jumper, but Zayn just waves him off when he tries to dab at it with a tissue. “Um, I think I want to see a doctor first, just to be completely sure.”

“Harry...”

“I’ll make an appointment!” Harry promises.

“The longer you wait, the harder it will get to tell him, H, and it’s been two months of this already. Make an appointment for this week. If I see you here tomorrow and you haven’t been to the doctor yet, I’ll call Louis and tell him for you.”

“Tomorrow,” Harry squawks, but Zayn just shakes his head and crosses his arms. “Fine,” Harry grumbles, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He doesn’t even have a general physician here in Manchester yet, he’s got no idea who to go to for _this_. So he does the first thing he can think of and calls his mum.

&&

It’s three days before Christmas, two days before Louis’ birthday, and instead of packing for their trip, Harry is sitting in the middle of their room surrounded by clothing and whispering to his belly. He and Zayn closed the bakery for Christmas that afternoon, Louis is due home from training any moment, and Harry really should be packing, but.

But he’d sat down with half the contents of their closet because he can’t stand on his feet for too long without getting tired now, and his belly had pooched out over the waistband of his jeans. And he knows it’s just his belly - even though he’s gotten a bit thicker all around, he knows he isn’t properly showing yet, but he couldn’t help the way his heart had turned to mush, and the urge to coo at the baby growing inside him had been too intense to resist.

At least his satchel is already packed. He’s got some road snacks, two sets of earphones, a cell phone charger, and a copy of his first ultrasound, tucked carefully between the pages of a book so he knows Louis won’t accidentally find it if he goes rummaging through the bag. They’re spending Christmas at his parents house, then Boxing Day at Louis’ mum’s, and Harry plans on adding the ultrasound to his birthday gift for Louis, given at his parents house where everyone already knows and he won’t have to compete with eight other people for Louis’ attention.

Harry pokes at his still mostly flat belly with a little pout. He can’t wait till he’s showing, so he won’t feel quite so ridiculous, talking to nothing. The doctor said the baby is about the size of a lemon and that he should start showing before the end of the month, but Harry’s just not sure that’s fair. It’s been four months, he wants his belly already.

“You’ll show soon, won’t you baby? I couldn’t even see you on the ultrasound, even though I told Dr. Martin that I could. I think he knew, though,” Harry confides. The baby had only been the size of a peanut when he had the ultrasound, he thinks he’s allowed a miss this one time. The sound of the front door shutting filters down the hall, and Harry hears the dogs bark excitedly, followed by Louis laughing. “I have to go, your papa’s home. I love you, little Peanut.”

Harry pats his belly, then tugs his shirt back down just as Louis walks into the room. He stops dead, eyes wide as he takes everything in.

“What the - did we get robbed?”

Harry giggles helplessly, thinks he feels an answering flutter in his belly. Only 6cm long and already in love with the sound of Louis’ voice. “I’m packing. We’re leaving for Cheshire tomorrow, you didn’t forget, did you?”

“No,” Louis says faintly, dropping his kit bag by the door and stepping further into the room. “But we’re only going to be gone for five days, we don’t need to take the whole closet with us.”

Harry shrugs and brushes a hand over a soft, knitted jumper he bought Louis last winter. “I know, but I couldn’t decide what to bring.”

“A pair of jeans and a few jumpers. Solved.”

Louis pushes a pile of t-shirts aside so he can drop to the floor beside Harry, starts picking random items up and setting them in a small stack in his lap. “These are warm, it’ll be cold in Donny. Don’t want you getting sick.” Harry squeezes the knitted jumper to his chest and buries a smile in the soft fabric, heart tripping happily. He watches Louis pick up an olive green sweatshirt and set it on top of the pile. “And this one because I like this color on you.”

Harry snorts, picks at the sleeve of the jumper absently. “You just like how big it is on me because it means you can burrow.”

Louis just shrugs, a serene smile on his face, and leans into Harry’s side,. Harry’s heart ratchets up into over-drive when Louis puts a hand on his belly and murmurs into his shoulder, “Maybe I do just like how big it looks on you. Let a man dream, love.”

Shit, Harry thinks. Shit shit shit. Now is his chance, Louis has just given him the perfect opening. But the moment he opens his mouth to say something, his throat closes up with nerves and all he gets out is a garbled choking noise.

“Sorry,” Louis murmurs, pulling away and rocking back onto his hands. His cheeks are flushed pink and he’s worrying one of his thumbnails, and Harry’s stomach sinks. “I know we said we’d - sometimes I just wish.”

Louis cuts himself off with an abashed shrug, and Harry’s nerves and excitement about his birthday present triple. After discussing waiting two years ago, Louis hasn’t brought the subject up again, and now Harry has no idea how he’ll keep the news to himself for two more days. To distract himself, Harry shoves some of the discarded clothes aside and drags the suitcase he’d laid out closer so he can start packing clothes into it.

“How was training today?” he asks while he carefully re-folds each jumper and pair of jeans.

“Great,” Louis enthuses, flopping back onto the rug. “My physiotherapist - Niall - reckons Paul might make me a starter soon.”

Harry swings around to look at Louis, exclaims, “Already? That’s incredible!”

Hands folded across his stomach, Louis shrugs, forcedly nonchalant, and says, “I’ve still got a lot of work to do, so there’s no guarantee, but maybe.”

“Lou,” Harry sighs, setting the undershirt he’d been folding aside and crawling across the rug so he can throw a leg over Louis’ hips and sit on him. He chooses to ignore the little wheeze Louis lets out and drills a finger into his stomach. “Niall is a professional, he knows what he’s talking about. You’re amazing and you’ll be a starter in no time. Now stop putting yourself down and help me pack, we need shampoo and toothpaste.”

 

Harry wakes up a couple of hours before Louis the next morning, manages to turn the shower on before having to rush for the toilet. He’s quite ready for this morning sickness to abate, but Dr. Martin said it’s different with everyone, that it could last another few weeks. Harry has managed to hide it from Louis until now because he has to leave for the bakery before Louis even wakes up, but by tomorrow, he won’t have to hide anything anymore. Harry flushes the toilet and brushes his teeth before slipping into the shower, is busy rinsing shampoo out of his hair when he hears the door snick open and the slap of bare feet on the wet tiles.

Louis’ fingers are still sleep-cold when he walks them across Harry’s belly before tugging him back against his chest. Harry settles against him with a sigh and they stand there quietly for a moment, letting the steamy air swirl around them and the sound of water lull them into a sleepy haze. Harry hasn’t been sleeping well at night, something google tells him is typical of the first few months, and he feels like he could fall asleep like this, standing up with Louis’ arms around him and Louis pressing sleepy, open-mouthed kisses to his shoulder.

The spell is finally broken when Louis whispers, “We should get on the road soon if we want to skip traffic.”

Harry nods, fighting to pull himself away from sleep. They still need to pack their toothbrushes and grab last minute electronic devices and chargers, and getting into his skinnies takes just a little bit longer these days. By the time they’re ready to head out the door, the dogs have worked themselves up into a right state, and Louis has to physically pull Harry out the door.

“Dan is coming by this afternoon to check on them, Harry, we’ll be back in less than a week!”

It tugs at Harry’s heart anyway. He can see their noses pressed against the window next to the door and he feels like a bad parent, subconsciously rubs a hand over his belly as if to reassure his baby that he’ll be good when the time comes, he promises.

Despite the early hour, the streets are already teeming with cars - people heading to work, people heading out of town for the holidays, people getting in some truly last minute shopping - and it takes them a half hour just to get out of town. Harry’s jeans keep pinching at his waist and he can’t get comfortable, so he waits until Louis is distracted, cursing up a storm at someone who cut him off while getting on M60, to slip a hand up under the hem of his jumper and undo the button. Jesus, he thinks, patting a hand over his belly. Four months pregnant and barely showing and he can already barely fit into his clothes. He makes a mental note to look up pregnancy yoga routines once he’s at his mum’s.

Once they make it out of town, it’s only another half hour to Holmes Chapel. Gemma is already at their parents’ house and they’re met with hugs and kisses and gigantic mugs of tea. Robin drags Louis into the living room so he can pump Louis for information about Man U, while Anne and Gemma corner Harry in the kitchen and demand to see his stomach and to hear details.

Flushing with embarrassment but secretly pleased that he finally has someone other than Zayn to talk to about this - not that Zayn isn’t great, he’s _wonderful_ , and let Harry show him the ultrasound about three hundred times over the last few weeks - Harry lifts his jumper up, doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed about the unbuttoned jeans. There isn’t much to show, just a little added roundness to his hips and a gentle, barely-there slope to his belly, but his mum and sister coo anyway and Harry catches Anne wiping at the corner of her eye when he tugs his jumper back down.

“What have you been craving?” Anne asks. “I’ll have Robin go to the shop while you and Louis are resting. We bought caffeine free tea for you, and I have a bag of prenatal vitamins, in case you haven’t bought any yet, since Louis doesn’t know.”

“Lift your shirt up again, H, I want to take a picture,” Gemma orders, phone at the ready.

There isn’t even anything much _to_ take a photo of just yet, but, completely overwhelmed, Harry lifts it up and turns to his mum, says dazedly, “Um, just fruit, really. Berries.” He ignores Gemma’s snort and continues, “Raspberries, blueberries, and blackcurrant mostly.”

“Loads of vitamins,” Anne nods, approving. “Vitamins and antioxidants. Good baby,” she coos, patting Harry’s belly.

Harry and Gemma are hunched over her phone, scrolling through pregnancy websites and whispering about baby names and when they think he’ll start showing, when Louis and Robin wander in. Louis moves immediately to Harry’s side and tugs him in close, slides a hand around his waist and digs the tips of his fingers into the softness of his hips just hard enough to have little tendrils of heat snaking up Harry’s limbs.

Harry tilts his head to rest on Louis’ shoulder, suddenly exhausted. Between packing and the baby waking him up every hour, he’d only managed a few hours of sleep the previous night, and he and Louis are meeting some of Harry’s friends from sixth form that night for drinks.

“Why don’t you two go rest up,” Anne comments from where she’s scribbling down a shopping list for Robin. “Gemma and I will prepare lunch, we’ll wake you when it’s ready.”

Harry wants to protest, doesn’t want to put his mum and sister through too much, but his eyelids feel like they’re made of lead and his tongue is thick in his mouth, and all he can do is nod drowsily and slump up the stairs, Louis trailing behind him with their bag slung over his shoulder.

Harry’s bedroom is just as it was when he left for culinary school five years ago, from the full sized bed with its simple red and white striped duvet to the pitted and marked-on desk, the posters lining the walls that range from Coldplay to Harry Potter to David Beckham. It’s comforting and jarring at the same time, this time capsule that used to be his life.

Louis was the first - and only - boy he ever had in his bed, Harry thinks sleepily while he strips off and crawls between the sheets. He remembers with perfect clarity the first time Louis came to visit him after they met at the Script concert in Manchester, how they had slept in this bed together for two nights, carefully not touching, before giving in and falling into each other like collapsing stars. He turns into Louis automatically when he feels the bed dip beside him, mumbles a syrupy ‘I love you’ into the skin of Louis’ chest, and falls asleep with a smile on his face and Louis’ fingers tracing patterns against his scalp.

&&

Harry is going to hyperventilate.

After dinner, the five of them sat on sofas in the living room with cake and tea while Louis slowly went through his birthday gifts. Harry had gone simple with his gift, had found Louis a refurbished Nintendo 64 and a pack of games for his gaming console collection, and Louis had insisted that they hook it up to Anne and Robin’s television and have a family Super Mario tournament.

It’s nearing midnight now, though, and Harry wants to give Louis the last piece of his gift in private, so he fakes a yawn and drags Louis up to his bedroom. He’s got the ultrasound tucked inside of a card he found at the supermarket earlier that day when he and his mum went to pick up more flour for Louis’ cake. The card doesn’t matter, though, probably won’t even get read, and Harry is so nervous he feels like he’s about to fragment into a million jittery pieces.

“What’s this?” Louis asks, approaching the bed. The envelope is sitting on Louis’ side, his name printed across the front in giant, blocky letters so there’s no mistaking what it is.

“For you,” Harry states anyway, thumb in his mouth so he can chew on his fingernail anxiously.

Louis shoots him an exasperated look, but he reaches for the envelope eagerly. “You don’t have to get me two gifts, Hazza. You don’t even need to get me one, you know that, right?”

Harry shrugs jerkily and drops onto the corner of the bed, legs trembling too hard for him to stand upright. He has no idea _why_ he’s so nervous, when just two nights ago Louis was talking about wanting a baby. He flinches at the sound of ripping paper, watches with his breath held as Louis pulls the card out and studies the front of it quietly. It’s just a simple card, soppy and overly dramatic, but his face goes soft and he reaches a hand out and brushes his fingers through Harry’s hair before flipping it open.

Harry’s heart stops in his chest at the way Louis sucks in an audible breath.

“Haz,” he whispers, eyes locked on the contents of the card. He traces a finger around the edge of the polaroid before lifting his eyes to Harry’s. “Is this -”

Harry nods once, all traces of uncertainty gone when Louis’ face lights up like a beacon and he drops the card onto the foot of the bed so he can clamber into Harry’s lap and grab at the hem of his jumper, ultrasound still clutched in one hand.

“Wait,” Harry laughs, scooting back a bit so they don’t go toppling to the floor. “What are you doing?”

“I want to see,” Louis demands, jerking at the fabric to try and get Harry to lift his arms so he can pull it off.

“There’s nothing to see yet,” Harry protests, but he lifts his arms obediently, lets Louis yank the jumper over his head and toss it across the room, then push him gently back so he’s lying down on the bed.

His hands are freezing when Louis settles them on Harry’s sides, squeezing carefully at his hips before brushing over his belly softly, but they heat up quickly. Harry runs warm anyway, but he’s been radiating heat like a furnace since he got pregnant. Louis pouts out his bottom lip when his hands settle over Harry’s belly. He lifts the polaroid and sets it down on Harry’s chest so he can look back and forth between it and his stomach, eyes wide with wonder.

“This is inside of you,” Louis breathes, tracing a finger over the black and gray dips and swirls. Something in the photo catches his eye, and he lifts it again so he can look closer, says confusedly, “Peanut?”

Harry squeezes his knees, says, “Dr. Martin said the baby was only the size of a peanut when that was taken, so I had him put that on there so I would remember. It’s lemon sized right now, he said, but you’re not going to see anything yet.”

“A peanut,” Louis says wonderingly, fingers tracing aimless patterns across Harry’s skin. It tickles a little, but the look of concentration and awe on Louis’ face, the reverence in his touch, is intensely hot, and it doesn’t take much to get Harry going these days. He has no idea what this baby is doing to his hormones, but he’s already hard, dick straining against the zip of his jeans, so when Louis ducks down to press a kiss to the center of his belly, hands squeezing at his sides for balance, he can’t help the little moan that slips out.

Louis freezes, then looks up slowly, still hunched over Harry’s stomach. “Haz,” he whispers, “Gemma is on the other side of this wall and your parents are just across the hall.”

“Sorry,” Harry breathes, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes to try and calm himself down. He just needs a moment, he thinks, but then he looks down at Louis, who’s sat back on his thighs and has a hand inside his joggers, and he groans again, wiggles his fingers at Louis and says urgently, “C’mere, come here, want to suck you off, _please_.”

Louis wastes no time in shedding his clothing, ends up having to help Harry wrestle his boots and jeans off because his hands are shaking too much, and he lets out a string of muttered curses when Harry shoves him down onto the end of the bed and drops to his knees on the carpet, crawls between his legs and sucks the head of Louis’ cock into his mouth immediately. Harry has to get a hand on himself, squeeze the base of his cock to stop himself from coming immediately when Louis thrusts unsteadily into his mouth.

He lets Louis fuck his mouth, just looks up at him with glassy eyes, and doesn’t even realize he’s been stroking himself until the head of Louis’ dick nudges the back of his throat and he swallows around him and comes with a violent shiver.

“Oh, fuck,” Louis curses quietly, pulling out of Harry’s mouth and sliding down onto the floor along with him. Harry blinks at him dazedly, mouth swollen and eyes damp, while Louis brushes his hair off his forehead and murmurs nonsensical praise, presses kisses all over his face. “Come on, love, up.”

Harry tries to help when Louis lifts him up off the floor and lays him out on the bed, but he’s still weak and trembling, has to lean on him for support. Louis guides him back gently, lifts his hands over his head and spreads his legs wide so he can settle between them, then leans over him for a kiss. Harry tilts his chin up into it eagerly, desperate for any and all contact, and hums happily when Louis trails his fingers down his sides and up over his chest, thumbs at his nipples.

He’s so sensitive - his entire body feels like it’s on fire, and when Louis makes his way down over his chest, chasing his wandering fingertips with kisses until he’s brushed his lips against the insides of his elbows, the hollows of his collarbones, the subtle dip between his pecs, sucked vividly red marks into the soft swells of his hips and paid special attention to his belly, Harry can feel himself getting hard again, rutting desperately against Louis’ thigh.

“H,” Louis whispers, mouth hovering just over Harry’s hip. “Did you bring anything?”

Harry nods slowly, feels drugged and like his entire body is tingling. “My bag,” he rasps, turning his head to look at where he set his satchel on top of the desk. Louis makes quick work of fetching the bottle of lube he’d stashed in the side pocket, curses quietly when Harry bends his knees and spreads his legs, whispers, “Hurry.”

He makes quick work of opening Harry up, just slow enough that he won’t hurt Harry, even though Harry keeps begging him to go faster. “‘M ready,” he chants through the slots between Louis’ fingers covering his mouth. They’re both loud, but Harry is worse at remembering to be quiet when they need to be. “Ready, please, promise.”

Harry is confused when Louis’ hands fall away, though, pries his eyes open to find Louis sitting back against the headboard. “Want to see you,” he explains, pumping his own cock and spreading lube over it, and Harry’s stomach swoops pleasantly before he pushes up onto his knees and crawls across the bed to settle himself over Louis’ lap.

Harry reaches down to grip Louis, mouth curving at Louis’ gasp, and lines him up, sinks down slowly, slowly, until Louis is clenching his jaw, hands fisted in the sheets.

“Christ, you’re a tease,” Louis gasps, then closes his hands around Harry’s hips and holds him in place while he sets the pace, feet planted on the mattress so he can fuck up into him. Harry loves this position, loves being on top and letting Louis take control anyway, loves the way it feels. He grips Louis’ shoulders for stability then arches his back, head tipped back toward the ceiling, and tries to stay quiet.

But then Louis lets go of his hips, lets Harry work himself on his cock, and Harry falls forward, rests his forehead against Louis’ shoulder so he can stifle his noises against Louis’ neck while he works his hips, chasing the orgasm he can feel building in the pit of his stomach. He’s almost there, can feel it coiling tighter and tighter, and all it takes to tip him over the edge is Louis’ hands sliding over to cover his belly, fingers spread across his stomach. Harry comes with a gasp, rides Louis through it until he can feel Louis shaking beneath him, until Louis sits up and crushes him against his chest and kisses him through the aftershocks.

They fall back onto the bed together, exhausted and noodle-limbed, gasping desperately for air while their heart rates slow.

“Jesus Christ,” Louis whispers, and Harry bursts into laughter, too weak to even lift a hand to cover his mouth and muffle the sound. With a grunt, Louis rolls onto his side so he’s facing Harry, cups a hand over his belly and whispers, voice brimming with joy, “Happy birthday to me.”

&&

Harry stands in front of the mirror, pouting, and pokes at his belly.

“Come on, Peanut,” he whispers, rubbing a hand over his stomach. He’s gotten steadily thicker and has a small slope to his belly, to the point that none of his jeans fit at all anymore, but he hasn’t really started to _show_ yet, and it’s driving him mad. He just wants his belly to really _pop_ , wants to be able to wear pregnancy clothes, wants people to _know_ he’s pregnant when they see him walking down the street, but his baby is being very stubborn. He’s been having Louis measure his stomach every evening since he told him, has him taking pictures every day, as well, for a collage, but it’s getting very frustrating, only having these minute changes from day to day.

Louis finds him like that, kit halfway on, and stops in their bedroom doorway, his boots and shin guards clasped loosely in his hand.

“Babe?”

Harry frowns at Louis’ reflection and tugs his shirt back down, shrugs jerkily. “I’m alright, don’t worry about it. Are you almost ready to go?”

Louis drops his gear by the door and comes into the room. Harry tracks his progress across the floor, leans back into him gratefully when he steps up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. Louis presses a kiss to the back of Harry’s shoulder and whispers, “Don’t worry, love. It’ll happen soon.”

He pets a hand over Harry’s stomach and Harry shivers. “Baby’s just taking its time cooking, that’s all.” Louis presses a smile to the edge of Harry’s jaw. “It’s like a souffle. It takes time to rise, but when it does, it’ll be perfect.”

Harry groans and shoves Louis’ hands away, turns around to face him and laughs, “You are awful.”

“Hey, Hazza,” Louis giggles, reaching out to grip Harry’s sides and tug him in. Harry doesn’t resist. “You know what you should have called the bakery?” He lifts up into his toes to he can whisper against Harry’s mouth, “Bun in the oven.”

Harry giggles helplessly at that one, clutching at the back of Louis’ jersey.

“The worst,” he murmurs into the kiss.

“Don’t act like you hate it,” Louis teases, nipping at his bottom lip before stepping back. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave later? You’ll just be sitting around while we warm up.”

Harry shakes his head emphatically and tugs at the jersey Louis got him. It has Louis’ name and number on the back and is about four sizes too large, so that he’ll still be able to wear it once his belly has grown.

“This is your first starting match, I’m not running the risk of missing any of it. Plus, Zayn will be there to keep me company.”

Louis concedes the point with a sigh, and Harry turns into it when Louis reaches a hand out to wind one of his curls around his finger. “Just make sure you stay warm and drink lots of water, yeah? It’s only January, can’t have you and Peanut catching a cold.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but warmth blooms in his belly at the concern in Louis’ voice. “Yes, mum. I won’t dehydrate.”

“Good boy,” Louis purrs, then steps back so he can go fetch his boots. “We should get going.”

 

Louis’ first starting match is a nail biter. Harry spends the whole match on his feet, jumping up and down and cheering as Louis streaks up and down the field, a tiny red and white blur. The score is 0-0 with two minutes left to the match when Louis nips the ball right out from under one of the opposing player’s noses and carries it down the field. The crowd roars with excitement when he manages to twist around a knot of Chelsea players and pass the ball to one of the Man U strikers, who puts it neatly into the net with 35 seconds to spare. Harry jumps so excitedly that he spills half his water bottle all over Zayn and soaks his own clothes when he yanks Zayn into a fierce hug. Then, hunching over, Harry rubs a hand over his belly and whispers, “That’s your papa, baby.”

Harry falls asleep in the car on the way home, not quite past the sleepy stage of being pregnant. He comes to for a brief moment when Louis lifts him into his arms and again when he sets him down on their bed, just long enough to wrap a hand around Louis’ wrist and slur, “S’proud ‘f you. C’mere.”

He wait for Louis to get in bed with him then, sighing contentedly, Harry scoots back into the curve of Louis’ body, stomach fluttering happily when Louis cups a hand over his belly. He’s just sliding back into sleep when he feels it.

Harry’s eyes spring open, suddenly wide awake, and he goes completely still, feels Louis’ thumb still as well. He doesn’t breathe, too scared to move in case it doesn’t happen again, but there it goes - a series of flutters that have nothing to do with the way Louis is cuddling him, soft but unmistakable.

“Louis,” Harry whispers, not wanting to be too loud, in case the baby can hear him and stops. “Did you feel that?”

“Yes,” Louis whispers back, “I thought -”

There it goes again, mad little ripples against Louis’ palm, and tears spring to Harry’s eyes. Not caring if he startles the baby anymore, Harry rolls over hurriedly. He wants to see Louis’ face, _needs_ to see how he’s reacting to this. Their baby just kicked for the first time, and Harry had no idea he’d be this overwhelmed by something so small. Louis’ hands are on his face immediately, stroking tears away with his thumbs and pulling him closer so he can pepper kisses all over Harry’s face. A moment later they’re gone, cheeks still warm from the heat of Louis’ palms, and Louis is wiggling down the bed until he’s level with Harry’s belly. Louis tugs the shirt up to expose his stomach, strokes the tips of his fingers over the soft curve of it, more pronounced when Harry is laying on his side, then leans in to brush a kiss over his belly.

“Hi, Peanut,” Louis murmurs, lips moving against Harry’s skin with every syllable, and Harry thrills when he feels an answering kick. They’re feeble, the baby still too small to put much force behind them, but they’re real, and Harry can feel his tears soaking the pillow beneath his head - Louis’ pillow, oops - and happiness bubbling up in his chest, so overwhelming he can barely breathe.

He brushes a trembling hand through Louis’ hair, still damp from his post-match shower, and thinks there couldn’t possibly have been a better way to celebrate Louis’ match, can’t wait until he and baby can cheer Louis on and commemorate his wins in person.

&&

One thing the pregnancy books did nothing to warn Harry about was how horny he would be _all the time_. It’s worst when Louis is traveling for away matches and Harry can’t ride him on the living room sofa, or let Louis fuck his mouth until he’s so turned on that all it takes is Louis’ hand on him and he’s coming. And it’s only gotten worse as the weeks have worn on. He’s gotten so sensitive to every touch that sometimes all it takes to get him started is the brush of Louis’ fingers against the small of his back or a glimpse of the reverent way Louis looks at his belly.

Sometimes, though, Harry just wants an innocent cuddle.

“Tell me if I get too heavy,” Harry warns, but Louis just tightens his grip around Harry’s middle and nuzzles his bare shoulder. The baby has been fucking with his internal temperature lately, on top of everything else, and Harry can’t stand to wear shirts when he’s at home, tends to walk around in just a pair of pants most of the time. Louis doesn’t complain.

“You won’t, promise.”

Harry settles back against Louis’ chest with a sigh, at an angle so he can bend his knees and rest his feet on the sofa as best he can, with his belly in the way. He thinks ruefully about the time when he used to wish he has showing a bit more, can’t believe it’s only been six weeks since then and he’s already grown this much. He tips his head back against Louis’ shoulder and focuses in on the television, where Grease is playing. Louis wants to introduce the baby to the music from his favorite film early, insists that it’s vital to Peanut’s upbringing.

Louis sings along with all of the songs, chest vibrating pleasantly against Harry’s back, a constant hum through his veins that has his nerve endings tingling softly. It’s just a gentle buzz, calming and warm, until Louis slides a hand over his belly and starts tracing absent patterns into his skin.

It starts as a low thrum in the pit of his stomach, radiating out from the places where Louis’ fingers are touching his skin. Within minutes, though, it’s a steady throb, weighing down his arms and curling his toes down into the cushion of the sofa. He shifts against Louis restlessly, movie forgotten and all focus now on the trail of Louis’ fingers over his stomach and the way his dick is tenting the loose material of his joggers.

“Harry, what’s wrong, are you uncomfortable?”

In lieu of answering, Harry folds his hand over Louis’ and traps it against his belly so he can’t draw patterns on him anymore. He tries to focus back in on the film, but he knows Louis can feel how flushed his skin is, can probably hear his heart rabbiting in his chest. He reacts too slowly when he feels Louis’ free hand drop to his lap, shudders when Louis closes his hand around him over his pants and buries a grin in the side of his neck.

“ _Oh_ ,” Louis giggles. “Well, then.”

“Lou,” Harry grits out, “I can wait, you don’t have to -”

But Louis just shushes him and digs between the couch cushions for one of the bottles of lube they’ve taken to hiding in random places around the house these days, for when Harry gets desperate. Louis slips a slicked up hand under the waistband of Harry’s joggers and trails his fingers up the underside of Harry’s dick, in counterpoint with the drag of his other hand over his belly.

Harry’s legs fall open and he slumps further into Louis’ grip, back protesting a bit at the angle, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the easy slide of Louis’ hand as he jerks him in tight, rough strokes, the way Louis is nibbling on his neck, sucking fleeting bruises into the delicate skin behind his ear. The fabric of his joggers keeps rubbing over the head of his dick with every movement of Louis’ hand, just rough enough, and it’s over embarrassingly quickly. Harry grips Louis’ thighs with both hands, digging his fingers in as his back arches and he comes.

“Well,” Louis quips cheerfully, “that’s Grease ruined for me.”

Harry groans and turns his face into Louis’ chest, burning with embarrassment at how quickly he’d gotten worked up, how quickly he’d come. Not that it’s anything particularly new, he’s always been weak for Louis, but his system is all out of whack now and everything has intensified. Louis delights in it, though, is laughing as he wipes his hand on Harry’s joggers and wraps him up in a hug that robs Harry of his breath.

“You are incredible,” Louis breathes, dragging his hands up Harry’s back in broad strokes that settle him and lull him into a sleepy half-doze.

“‘M sorry I ruined your favorite movie,” Harry mumbles into Louis’ shoulder. His trousers are uncomfortably sticky right now and his right knee is bent too much, leg digging into the bottom of his belly, but Louis’ jumper smells like their laundry detergent and Louis’ cologne and he’s so very warm, and all of the energy has been sapped out of Harry along with that orgasm.

Louis just laughs again, soft and genuine, and buries his fingers in Harry’s hair so he can scratch at his scalp. “Don’t be sorry, love. I think it’s better this way, actually.” He presses a kiss to Harry’s forehead and murmurs, “Now every time I watch it, I’ll think of getting you off and how incredibly responsive you are, how sexy you look like this.”

Harry shivers when Louis rubs one hand over the curve of his belly and tugs gently on his curls with the other. He burrows further into Louis’ chest, so drowsy and comfortable he never wants to move again. Louis’ legs must be going numb by now, but he just hugs Harry tighter and goes back to petting at his hair, hums _We Go Together_ in his ear until Harry can feel himself drifting off, boneless and utterly content.

&&

“I like this one,” Harry sighs, smoothing a hand over the glossy magazine page. He and Louis have been throwing around ideas for nursery themes for far too long, and with the baby due in just six weeks, it’s getting a little too close for comfort. Zayn has already agreed to paint whatever it is they decide on, but Harry wants to match the furniture to Zayn’s art, not the other way around, and they’re running out of time.

Louis squints down at the jungle-themed room. It’s adorable, trees and monkeys and giraffes done in pastels that give the room a sense of calm, but are cheerful and animated enough to be stimulating.

“It’s nice...” Louis trails off, tone hesitant, and Harry’s shoulders slump. They’ve been looking at themes for two _months_ and they’ve yet to agree on one. Louis digs the point of his chin into Harry’s shoulder and soothes a hand over his rounded belly, scritching right where he knows the baby always kicks. “Let’s just keep looking, I want to see the rest of the mag.”

Pouting only a little, Harry flips the page, and his breath catches immediately, heart thudding painfully in his chest. He feels Peanut give a healthy kick and presses a hand over the spot instinctively, tearing up a little when the baby kicks again, like it’s excited, too.

“Louis,” Harry breathes.

Louis’ voice is just as soft when he replies, “Yeah.”

The room in the photograph is done in shades of blue and gray, gentle, frothy waves lining an accent wall and a massive compass painted on the ceiling. The curtains are patterned in anchors, the light fixtures shaped like sailor’s knots, and everything about it is so perfect, so _them_ , that Harry can’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.

He tears the page out of the magazine so reverently that it takes him a full minute, but he doesn’t want to rip the photo. He needs to bring it to Zayn, so that he can start thinking up his own variation on the theme, immediately. He throws a quick glance at Louis over his shoulder, heart still pounding double-time in his chest, and asks, voice shaky, “Do you think I could -”

“No,” Louis laughs, taking the page out of Harry’s hand and setting it on the bedside table. He bends his knees where they’re bracketed around Harry’s hips and wraps his arms around Harry’s middle, presses a kiss to the side of his neck so that he shivers. “It’s almost midnight, you’ll see Zayn in the morning. You should get some sleep, love.”

Harry pushes his bottom lip out again, but slumps a little lower against Louis’ chest. Sitting like this, between Louis’ legs, is one of the more comfortable positions he can manage, these days, but it still makes the small of his back ache after a while. The baby is too heavy for him to be able to stretch out on his back, though, so leaning half against Louis is his only source of relief. He moans gratefully when Louis slides his hands around and digs the tips of his fingers into the little dip at the base of his spine. Pregnancy yoga has helped loads, but there’s only so much he can do when he’s carrying thirty extra pounds of baby weight.

“How do you feel?” Louis asks, breath ruffling Harry’s hair.

“Fine,” Harry slurs, blissed out. Louis’ fingers are like magic, stretching the space between his vertebrae and easing the pressure. “You’re amazing.”

Louis ducks his head over Harry’s shoulder so he can whisper toward his belly, “You have to go easy on your daddy, Peanut. He’s working really hard to keep you safe and healthy.”

The baby kicks excitedly, the way it always does when Louis talks, and Harry rubs a hand in soothing circles over his stomach, big and rounded, like he’s got a football tucked up underneath his jumper.

“He loves you already,” Harry murmurs.

“She,” Louis corrects, turning his head so he can kiss just behind Harry’s ear. They’ve chosen not to find out the sex of the baby, and can’t agree on what it is just yet. Harry thinks it’s a boy, but Louis insists it’s a girl, claims he’s an expert, after watching his mum carry girls three times. Harry will be happy either way, he just wants to meet their baby.

&&

The moment Louis got signed to Man U, Harry told him they’d go all the way to the FA Cup finals, and he’s believed it every moment since the season began. He just never thought he’d be due a week before the final match.

 

“No,” Louis says, short and firm.

“I’m going,” Harry insists, arms crossed petulantly over his swollen belly. He’s huge now, at nine months plus six days, feels like he’s got a small mountain growing out of his abdomen. And maybe it’s uncomfortable and exhausting to stand for more than twenty minutes at a time, but the final match against Arsenal is being held at Etihad Stadium and there is a seat near midfield with Harry’s name on it, and he wants to go support his husband.

Louis shakes his head and crosses his own arms. He’s already dressed in his kit, is stood facing the sofa where Harry is sprawled out, dressed and ready to go in Louis’ jersey. He’d only struggled a little bit, pulling it on, but he’d been determined to be dressed and ready to go once Louis got out of the shower so he couldn’t tell him no.

“You’re not going, Haz. I can’t have you standing for three hours while everyone around you screams and jumps around. You won’t even be able to get out of the seats to go to the toilet, and what if something happens? What if someone accidentally waves a hand and hits you, or what if you go into labor, you’re already past due -”

“I’m not going to go into labor today, Louis,” Harry scowls. The baby has been pretty settled this morning, but he rubs a hand in soothing circles over his belly anyway. The baby had kept him up all night, kicking and fussing, and his whole body aches, stomach muscles cramping uncomfortably every once in a while, but he won’t tell Louis that. He’d rather go to the match than nap alone in their big house while Louis is out there playing the match of his life.

But Louis just shakes his head again, resolute, and says, “It’s not happening, H. Your mum and Zayn are here, and they’re going watch the match with you on the telly, just like the rest of Britain.”

“Well the rest of Britain doesn’t have a husband playing in the match,” Harry argues, horrified when, unbidden, tears spring to his eyes. He blinks them back, but Louis notices, of course he does.

“Harry,” he sighs in a soft, pained voice. Before Harry can hope that maybe he’s won this time, though, Louis is easing slowly onto the sofa beside him and brushing his hair out of his face. “You know I want you there, but I want you and our daughter to be comfortable and safe more. Please.”

Harry lets his eyes fall shut, defeated, doesn’t even bother arguing with Louis over whether he thinks their baby will be a boy or a girl this time. He doesn’t want Louis to be worrying about him while he’s sprinting up and down the field, needs all of his focus to be on the match and on scoring points, on winning. He can hear his mum and Zayn chatting quietly in the kitchen, knows they’ll be good company for the match, anyway.

“Call me at halftime?” he whispers. He knows it’s a long-shot, that they’ll be too busy stretching and being lectured by the coach to get free time and that distractions are the last thing Louis will need by that point, but maybe they’ll make an exception for a hugely pregnant, bed-confined spouse.

“Of course,” Louis promises. “Need to check in on you, don’t I?”

“No,” Harry pouts, but Louis is already leaning in to kiss the pout right off his face.

“I have to go,” Louis whispers, lips brushing Harry’s where they’re still trading chaste kisses.

Not sure what his deal is, Harry swallows around a sudden lump in his throat and nods, kisses Louis one more time for good measure, then leans back so he can stand up. Instead of heading toward the door, though, he drops to his knees in front of Harry and puts both of his hands on his belly, fingers scratching at the slick material of the bright red Tomlinson jersey.

Finally, finally, after a morning of quiet, baby gives a short little kick to the palm of Louis’ hand when he whispers, “Papa’s going to work. Be nice to your daddy, Peanut.”

He presses a kiss right to the top of Harry’s belly, then pushes to his feet and backs away slowly, unwilling to take his eyes off Harry. Flushing happily and giggling, tears already forgotten, Harry waves him off, one hand cupped right over the spot Louis had left a kiss. When Louis finally turns the corner and out of sight, Harry calls out, “Score a goal for me!”

A moment later, his head pokes back into the room, eyes soft and smile dopey when he says, “They’re all for you, love.”

 

They watch the start of the match piled into Harry and Louis’ bed, Harry settled comfortably on his side between his mum and Zayn. He dozes off somewhere around the twelfth minute and wakes up just before halftime, groggy and incredibly uncomfortable. He struggles up into a sitting position, then inches toward the edge of the bed. Zayn isn’t in the room, but his mum reaches out to rub his back, asks, “Everything alright, darling?”

Harry nods, wincing as pain lances through his belly. He needs to pee desperately and then find a better position to lay in. It takes him a minute to stand up and shuffle into the bathroom, but it only eases his discomfort slightly. The small of his back aches and his feet ache and his belly aches and he feels hot and sticky, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get the shirt off by himself and he doesn’t want to ask for help. Sighing, Harry bends at the waist and rests his head on his arms where they’re folded on top of the bathroom counter. The pressure on his spine eases a bit and he takes advantage of the position he’s in to turn on the tap and splash cold water on his face.

“Everything okay in there?” his mum calls out, so Harry straightens back up with a quiet groan, fisting his hands in the small of his back as he shuffles back out. His mum looks concerned when he walks in, takes in how pale his face is and the water dripping off the ends of his hair as she slides off the bed and walks over to him. She rests her palm against Harry’s forehead, rubs the other over his belly in tight circles.

“‘M fine,” Harry whispers, grateful for her cool hand on his burning face. He goes willingly when she leads him back over to the bed.

“Come, darling, lay back down. Poor thing,” she croons, helping him knee onto the bed, then ease down onto his other side, at an angle so he can still see the telly. “You and Gemma were both late, you know. Gemma was the worst, she sent me to hospital three times with false contractions and didn’t show her face until eight days after her due date.”

Harry whines pathetically when she starts digging her knuckles into the small of his back. As much as he’s loved being pregnant, can’t wait to do it again and again, he’d love holding his baby in his arms even more at this point. The nursery has been ready for three weeks, just in case he went into early labor, but apparently their little Peanut has inherited Louis’ stubbornness.

He’s nearly dozed off to the feel of his mum massaging his back and tinny cheers coming from the telly when his stomach cramps up again. Harry gasps, body going rigid, and his mum’s hands still.

“Harry? Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Harry gasps, “I think so.”

His mum’s tone is knowing when she starts, “Harry -”

She’s cut off by the sound of Harry’s phone ringing, though, and Harry’s head shoots up so fast he gets dizzy for a moment. “Louis,” he whimpers, turns pleading eyes on his mum. “Please, mum.”

Sighing, Anne grabs the phone off the bedside table and hands it to Harry. Harry’s hands are shaking when he accepts the call, and he cushions the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can settle back down and rub both hands over his aching belly.

“ _Hi, love_ ,” Louis says quietly into his ear. Harry can just hear the faint sounds of his teammates talking and laughing in the background, wishes he was there so fiercely his throat aches. “ _How are you feeling?_ ”

“Good,” Harry lies, though the pain has eased for the time being, at least. “You’re doing so good out there.”

Louis snorts and says, “ _I bet you’ve been sleeping this whole time, you liar_.”

Harry makes an indignant noise and shoots a betrayed look over his shoulder at his mum and Zayn, who’s just walked in with a tray of steaming mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits. She just shrugs, unrepentant, worry still etched into her brow, and Harry turns back around so he can murmur quietly into the phone for a few minutes.

It’s not long enough, too soon when Louis says, “ _Listen, love, I have to go stretch, but you take it easy, okay? Sleep as much as you can, you can always watch the match highlights later. I’ll be home soon_.”

“With a trophy,” Harry tacks on, pleased at the way Louis laughs, a burst of static down the line.

“ _Maybe with a trophy,_ ” Louis concedes.

Harry turns his face into the blankets, whispers a muffled, “I love you,” into the phone and waits for Louis to whisper it back, then hang up first.

Harry is passing the phone back to his mum when another cramp has him seizing up, and he curls down around his belly, unable to keep a whimper from slipping out.

“Oh, shit,” Zayn says succinctly, setting his tea back down onto the tray with a clatter.

“That’s what I thought,” Anne mutters, then there are hands on Harry’s shoulders, pulling him upright and easing him toward the end of the bed. “Come on, love, we need to go.”

“No,” Harry gasps, trying to bat her hands away. He can see Louis and his teammates walking back out onto the field and the pain has eased again. He just wants to watch the second half of the match. “I’m fine, I just want to watch.”

“Baby, your contractions are already five minutes apart, we’re going. Up you go, come on.” To Zayn, she says, ““Send Louis a text, will you? Let him know where we’ve gone. And can you grab the overnight bag? It’s on that chair over there.”

Anne helps Harry to his feet, all while muttering instructions to them both. The dogs hang back, aware that something is wrong, and watch Harry waddle out the door with his mum on one side and Zayn on the other. It’s miserable, getting into the car, but at least the drive to the hospital is short.

 

The next two hours are the most bizarre hours of Harry’s life. He watches the final minutes of the game from a hospital bed while his contractions come and go, slowly, slowly coming closer together. He uses Louis’ tiny figure on the screen like an anchor through the pain, shoves sweaty hair out of his face so he can lean forward and watch the players dash across the field between spikes of pain. Another contraction comes just as Louis is carrying the ball down the field toward Arsenal’s goalkeeper, trying to take the score to 2-0, has Harry shouting out in a combination of pain and encouragement, and Harry slumps back against the pillows in relief when the contraction ends, too worn out to do much more than pump a weak fist in the air when Louis’ pass to one of the Man U strikers sails neatly into the net, just over the Arsenal goalkeeper’s outstretched fingers.

“They won,” he wheezes, turning his head to smile wearily at his mum and Zayn.

“They did, Louis was amazing. Try and rest, baby, Zayn will try to call him now that the match is over,” Anne soothes, rubbing a thumb across Harry’s brow.

 

Harry is still catching his breath from one contraction when he feels another one approaching, so close together now that he can’t get a break. He closes his eyes, hands running in ceaseless circles over his belly as he tries to breathe through the pain.

“Another one already?” Zayn asks, worry in his voice, and Harry hears his mum murmur something about going to fetch the doctor, but Harry doesn’t want him here yet, can’t let anything happen until Louis arrives. He shakes his head and reaches out blindly for his mum, trying to put all of his reasons for waiting into a squeeze of the hand.

Her hand comes up to cover his, cool and soft, and she murmurs, “I know, baby, but you can’t just put it off, that’s not how this works.”

“Just a little bit longer,” Harry whispers.

“Harry -”

His mum is cut off by the sound of the door opening, and Harry’s eyes fly open, excitement speeding his heart rate, but it isn’t Louis. Dr. Martin smiles brightly at him as he approaches the bed.

“Hello, Harry, how are you feeling?” Harry flutters a hand helplessly. Lying would be pointless. Dr Martin takes a moment to study his chart and the graphs on the little monitor by Harry’s bed, then says, “Everything looks good, you’ve been progressing wonderfully, but I’d like to take you back to surgery now.”

“No, please, I need Louis to be here, can we just wait -”

“Harry,” Dr. Martin says with a shake of his head, “we can’t delay any longer, I’m sorry. We need to be safe.”

Teeth sunk into his bottom lip so he can stop it from trembling, Harry turns to look at his mum and Zayn. Zayn reaches a hand out for his and squeezes, says, “I’ll keep calling Lou, H. I’m sure he’s on his way, he wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

Harry nods, only a little bit comforted by Zayn’s gentle, encouraging smile. The game ended an hour ago, he must at least be out of the locker room by now.

“Do you want me with you?” Anne asks, brushing her fingers through Harry’s hair, and he nods gratefully.

Harry twists his fingers nervously in the sheets as he turns to look at Dr. Martin. It’s difficult to swallow, and he can feel another contraction sneaking up already, but he manages to croak, “I’m ready.”

“Wonderful,” Dr. Martin nods, then says with a wink, “let’s get rolling, then.”

Harry doesn’t even have it in him to laugh at the joke, too consumed with breathing through another wave of pain. He vaguely registers Dr. Martin and a nurse wheeling his bed out of the hospital room and down a long, bright hallway. They’re approaching a set of double doors when Harry hears shouting, out of place in the quiet hum of the hospital. He has no strength left in him to turn and see what the fuss is, though, just tips his head back to look up at his mum in question. It takes him a moment, but then - he recognizes that voice.

With a sudden burst of energy, Harry sits up in the bed and twists around as best he can to look behind him. And there is Louis, hair wet and eyes wild, dodging stunned nurses as he lopes down the hall toward them. He skids to a halt beside Harry’s bed and drops his hands to his knees so he can catch his breath. He looks a mess - there’s a bruise blooming on his forearm, sweat is dripping down his temple, and his shirt is inside-out, but he’s the most welcome sight Harry has ever seen.

“Louis,” he says simply, so grateful that Louis is here he could cry.

Without a word, Louis straightens up and pulls Harry into a fierce hug. Harry clings to him desperately, ignoring the way the nurse is murmuring about clogging the hallway and being due in the operating room.

“I can’t believe you didn’t wait for me,” Louis laughs, face pressed into Harry’s hair.

“He tried,” Dr. Martin says dryly, then, “we really need to go, Mr. Tomlinson. The longer we wait, the more dangerous it is to the baby, so if you’d like to be there -”

“Yes,” Louis rushes to say, pulling out of Harry’s grasp and straightening up. Harry can’t stop looking at him, afraid that if he looks away, Louis will disappear and he’ll wake up from a fever dream to find Louis was never here at all. “Yes, absolutely. You’re not keeping me out of that room, Styles.”

Harry pouts, reaching out for Louis’ hand as they start wheeling the bed through the double doors. “ _Hey_ , it’s Tomlinson.”

&&

Harry wakes up to the discordant flashes of a television in a dark room, confused and bleary-eyed. For a moment, he thinks he’s still in the hospital and that the beeps and buzzes from the television are those of various machines and monitors. It takes him a moment to remember that he’s been home for three days, that the arm chair he’s reclining in is his own, and that Louis is sprawled out on the sofa beside him.

He gets up to switch off the telly, wincing in discomfort when he stretches his stitches a bit too far. He’s never had surgery before, and figuring out his limitations has been an experience. He manages to locate the remote without too much thoroughfare, casts the room into complete darkness for a moment before he can feel for the switch on the lamp beside his chair.

The lamp washes the room in a soft, yellow light, illuminating Louis where he’s stretched out on the sofa. He’s fast asleep, lips parted just so and snoring very faintly from the angle his head is at. His knees are bent, one of his arms is thrown over his head, palm open, and the other is draped over his chest, hand cupped gently over the tiny figure asleep on his chest.

Harry eases slowly to his knees beside the sofa, level with Louis’ shoulders, so that he can brace an arm on the edge and watch them sleep for a bit. Louis had been right, the baby was a girl, and Zayn had snuck into the house the day after she was born to hang tall wooden letters on the wall over her crib, painted blue to match the theme of the room - four blue letters to spell out her name. Their little Lily, Harry thinks happily, stroking a finger down the slope of her tiny nose. Her fingers twist in the fabric of Louis’ jumper and her mouth parts on a little sigh, and Harry’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. He can’t believe how much he loves her already, is in constant awe of how Louis handles her, gently and reverently, like she’s the most valuable thing on earth.

Somewhere on the other side of the house, his mum and Robin are sleeping in one of the guest rooms, there for the week to make sure that Harry is alright and to help out while Louis is at training during the day. A block away, Zayn is asleep in his own home, ready to stop by at a moment’s notice and set to tend the bakery for the next few weeks while Harry recovers and takes care of Lily. And right here, right in front of Harry’s eyes, are his husband and daughter, his little family. As Harry dozes off, head pillowed on his arm and hand resting just below Louis’, he’s completely sure that no one in the whole world has ever been happier than he is right now.

&&

Harry flattens a hand over his belly, frowning at his reflection in the mirror.

It’s been five months and he’s still not used to looking down and being able to see his feet. He hasn’t told Louis, but he kind of misses his big belly, misses the feeling of being pregnant. He’d fallen back into his pre-baby workout routine as soon as Dr. Martin had given him the okay and he’s finally back in his regular jeans, but he still wears his oversized jumpers and t-shirts all the time.

“Hazza, is there something you want to tell me?”

Harry jerks his head up from where he’d been staring at his belly, still soft, but fairly flat once again. He smiles sheepishly at Louis in the mirror and drops his shirt.

“No, it’s just weird, isn’t it?” He looks down at his stomach, shirt bagging a little around his waist where his belly used to stretch it. “There was a baby in here a few months ago, and now there isn’t.”

“What are you trying to say?” Louis asks, coming up behind Harry and wrapping his arms around him from behind. He splays his hands against Harry’s stomach and hooks his chin over his shoulder. “That you already want another one? Lily is barely five months old, you insatiable minx.”

Harry giggles, threading his fingers through Louis’ over his belly. “Well, I did tell you I wanted lots of babies. A dozen at _least_.”

“A dozen, Jesus,” Louis laughs, burying his face in the back of Harry’s shoulder. He squeezes Harry’s fingers, then lifts his head again so he can meet Harry’s eyes in the mirror. “On one condition.”

Harry raises an eyebrow and waits for him to continue, tickled by how seriously Louis is taking this.

“The rest of them are planned better. No more heart attacks in the locker room shower and risking speeding tickets trying to get to hospital because you’ve gone into labor in the middle of a bloody match.”

Harry sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, trying to fight a smile. He’s pretty sure Louis knows he isn’t being serious about how many babies he wants, but hey, if Louis wants to have twelve babies with him, he won’t argue. He turns around in the circle of Louis’ arms and wraps his own around Louis’ neck, buries his fingers in Louis’ hair and rests their foreheads together.

“Deal,” he whispers, happiness bubbling up in his throat and threatening to choke him.

Louis tips his chin forward and nips playfully at Harry’s bottom lip, slides a hand down to grope his bum. “It’s what, October? Nine months from now is July, yeah? What do you say we get started on number two?”

Harry aims a quick look at the baby monitor on the bedside table. He only put Lily down for her nap a few minutes ago, so they should have a couple of hours, at least. Plenty of time for a round or two. Harry makes a mental note to google the best position to ensure twins later.

“On one condition,” Harry says, grinning at the way Louis is already grinding against him, slow and dirty.

“Oh?” It comes out high and breathy, and sparks down Harry’s spine like fireworks.

“You do yoga with me this time.”

Louis snorts, but Harry can already feel the hard line of Louis’ cock against his thigh and his face is already flushed a pretty shade of pink, eyes dark and wide. Excitement and anticipation flare, bright and happy, in his belly when Louis whispers, fingers already dragging at the hem of his shirt and teeth nipping sharp at the curve of his jaw, “Deal.”

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Can you believe that someone with a sideblog called "buninharrysoven" has never written mpreg before this, WOW. I hope you enjoyed it!! A few of my friends didn't show till they were five months pregnant with their first kid, can you imagine how devastated rl Harry would be if that happened to him. ;-;
> 
> Anyway~~ please go wish radadusta a happy bday, and feel free to come say hi to me [on tumblr](http://supersnowpe.tumblr.com/)!


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